by Meg Ripley
Forcing his eyes off her, he crossed the balcony to a window a few yards away—a living room window, it seemed. Opening it quietly, he slipped inside, moving silently throughout the small space. He checked cupboards and drawers, a purse on the dining table, and even the bathroom cabinet. No medallion. There was only one place left to check, but he could still smell her, the heady scent drawing him closer. And he could still see her in his mind, her arms stretched up above her head on the pillow with just the sheet covering her slender frame.
There was no way in hell he was setting foot inside that room, not with the way he struggled against his body’s sudden need to touch her, to taste her…
Damn it! he cursed himself.
Using every bit of the control he’d garnered over the centuries, he forced himself to turn away, back through the small apartment and out the window he’d entered moments before. He stepped over the balcony’s ledge into a freefall, unleashing the fire from his core and shifting a split second later. He soared high and fast, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the sleeping beauty, now far below.
He flew back the way he’d come, not slowing until he’d reached his home miles away. He circled around several times, trying to make sense of his potent response to the woman. When he could find no answer, though, he pushed the question away, focusing instead on the task he’d charged himself with. He hadn’t retrieved the medallion, nor discovered for certain whether it was in the woman’s possession, but he now knew where she lived. She would have to leave her apartment at some point, and when she did, he’d search that last room and get it back.
He pulled in the fire and morphed as he touched down next to the funeral pyre that had smoldered to nothing. There was one more task to tend to that day, and the thought of it helped to quell the desire he felt for the strange woman.
He grabbed the shovel he’d brought with him earlier and started to dig. It would be a temporary grave—of course, her family would want to bring her home—but her law dictated that she be laid to rest quickly, even if that meant moving her to a final resting place later. With the hole then dug, he approached the ashes that were all that was left of his friend, and he gathered them carefully, first filling the urn that he’d locked away for his own burial, and then laying it gently in the ground.
The sad job done, he returned to his house, bid goodnight to the butler who had been with his family for five-hundred years, and dragged himself to bed. With no task to occupy his mind, he had suddenly grown tired; so much that despite the grief and anger he felt, he drifted off easily into a dreamless sleep.
24
It was eight-o-clock in the morning and Freya was waist-deep in the boxes and crates that had arrived that morning. They were expected at the museum two days ago, and now they’d be seriously pressed for time. It would be a miracle if they had the newest exhibit ready on time, but everyone seemed more than willing to do their part. Though working at the museum was a job, she’d learned quickly that the employees there were no ordinary workforce. Each of them was more than willing to go above and beyond, all enthusiastic about what they brought to the world through their small contributions.
It made sense, though. She’d seen her paycheck. Nobody entered into the field of curating and archaeology for the money, so it was replete with individuals who genuinely enjoyed their work.
“Freya!” Anita called as she entered the room.
Of course, there was one exception to the rule. Anita seemed to have gotten into the field for the sheer enjoyment of bossing others around. Certainly, there were other careers that would have paid her a great deal more to act like the queen bee, but she seemed content where she was, and unfortunately, the woman didn’t give the impression she’d be moving on anytime soon.
And as the newest member of the team, Freya seemed to bear the brunt of Anita’s lording behavior.
The woman stood over Freya now, tapping her toe impatiently. “There’s a package I need delivered this morning, and I trust this time you’ll make sure the job is done properly,” she announced dryly, as if she felt the need to remind everyone in the room that Freya was the reason the acquisition yesterday had been fumbled.
But being the low woman on the totem pole, she could do nothing but bite her lip and nod.
“Excellent. Grant Xavier is a private collector, and he’ll be expecting you at his estate this morning.”
“I hadn’t realized the museum was a home delivery service,” Freya mumbled under her breath, but apparently, her comment didn’t go unnoticed.
Anita stood up straighter and tilted her chin higher. “When the collector pays enough for one item to fund the museum for the entire year, yes, we are most certainly a home delivery service. I suggest you be on your way.”
“My apologies, Anita. Of course, I’ll deliver the statue to Mr. Xavier,” she replied, wondering for the umpteenth time why her boss seemed to have it in for her. For the past three months, she’d shown up early to her new job, stayed late, and done everything that was asked of her without a single complaint, and still the woman walked around with her nose in the air and had a snide comment for everything. She was beginning to think Anita either really needed to get laid, or she needed to see a doctor about having the stick removed from her ass.
Regardless of what Anita said, it was not common for the museum to be making house calls, no matter the price tag attached to the artifact. But then again, she could only say with any certainty that it had been uncommon in the past several months. Before that, who knows, maybe Anita had her staff making daily deliveries to all the ritzy collectors in the city.
And since she couldn’t see any way out of it, she might as well get it over with as soon as possible. So, she dusted off her clothes, retrieved the crate from Anita’s office and hailed a cab outside the museum.
Forty-five minutes later, the cab slowed as it passed through tall, open gates, and continued up a long, winding driveway. Freya’s breath caught in her throat when she spied the house up ahead—if it could be called a house. It was set against a mountainous backdrop so it almost appeared that the enormous glass-walled structure was jutting out from the rocky terrain behind it. A ten-foot tall waterfall emptied into a pond in front of the house, and every inch of the property she could see had been groomed to perfection.
She paid the cabdriver and asked him to wait for her, and then carefully climbed out, carrying the crate that contained the twelfth century statue with her. She knocked on the door, and after a few seconds, an older man dressed smartly in a black uniform greeted her with a welcoming smile. She explained why she was there, and he escorted her inside, down a long hall to an office at the end of it.
“Mr. Xavier will be with you shortly,” he told her, motioning for her to take a seat opposite the antique desk in the middle of the room.
She didn’t remain seated for long. Glancing around, she was amazed by the collections of books that lined the walls from floor to ceiling on three sides of the room. Walking over to the wall nearest her, she read the titles on a few of the spines.
Crime and Punishment, Hamlet, The Canterbury Tales, Pontus and Sidonia, Odyssey, The Tale of Two Lovers, Il Filocolo, and even Homer's Iliad—all books from centuries before.
There seemed to be no particular order to the way in which the books were sorted, but they were all placed carefully, and every book she could see looked like it had been taken out and read dozens of times. In fact, the spines she could see on some of the books looked so old, it wouldn’t have surprised her to discover they were original copies.
The door opened behind her and she spun around, as if she’d been caught snooping rather than browsing the abundant library. But if she’d been stunned at having been discovered, then the man who caught her there left her awestruck—even if he did appear none too pleased that she was there.
The man at the door, looking back at her with a now-unreadable expression on his handsome face, was…well, he was beautiful. His strong jaw, straight
nose and broad forehead were just the beginning. Defined cheekbones, full, sensual lips, and dazzling blue eyes made her wonder if he’d been hand-carved by the gods.
Her wonder turned to certainty as her eyes grazed downward; broad shoulders that tapered to his hips, muscular forearms and long legs—no mere mortal could possibly have been responsible for this creation. And although the impeccable clothing he wore didn’t cling to his body obscenely, she had no doubt by the fit that he was well-formed underneath.
“How can I help you, Miss…” he asked, his voice just as deep and smooth as a single malt Scotch whisky that had been aged to perfection, and she tried to ignore the way her heart sped up.
She forced herself to pull it together. Fast.
“Cullen,” she said. “My name is Freya Cullen, and I’m with the Las Vegas Natural History Museum. I’ve come to deliver the statue you purchased.”
He actually looked disappointed for a brief moment, but the look passed quickly. “I hadn’t even realized it arrived. It wasn’t due in the city for another three weeks.”
I can’t even get a pizza delivered on time, but a statue from the Ottoman Empire era got here weeks ahead of schedule? she scoffed inwardly. Sure, he was paying a bit more money for the artifact than she would for a cheese pizza, but still, it rankled. “Well, I suppose it’s just your lucky day, Mr. Xavier,” she covered her petty annoyance easily.
“It’s Grant, and yes, I’m beginning to think it is,” he said, and she got the impression he hadn’t been referring to the fortunate arrival of his statue. He was looking at her with heat in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. It was as if he was trying to see deeper, or maybe it was that he couldn’t quite figure out if he remembered her from somewhere.
Was that possible? Could he have any clues to who she was or what had happened to her? She was on the verge of asking, when she realized just how ridiculous that would be.
Flustered by the man and her own thoughts, it was time to put an end to this meeting, but just as she was about to open her mouth, he closed the few steps that remained between them and came to stand next to her in front of the desk.
“Why don’t we take a look at this, then,” he said, and slit the tape that held the small crate closed with a letter opener he’d picked up off the desk. The way his hand moved, surely but gently enough to keep from digging into any of the layers below the tape, made her wonder what it would feel like to have his hand moving over her in the same fashion. She mentally shook the thought away, and held the crate for him as he pulled out the carefully wrapped statue inside.
Unwrapped a moment later, he placed it down on the desk, rotating it and inspecting it carefully with an eye that was obviously familiar with antiques.
“This is what caught my attention,” he said, pointing to the text carved into the statue’s base. “The language of the text is incongruent with the sculpture’s origin.”
“Not necessarily,” she responded without thinking. “I’m sure you know that many slaves were taken from surrounding countries during the Ottoman Empire, some far-off countries as well, as the popularity of the slave trade grew. Some of these foreign slaves would have learned the trades of their masters, and it’s likely this is one that was carved in secret since it was inscribed with text in the slave’s native tongue.”
That was just great; she could spout details about the fifteenth century, but couldn’t willfully recall what year she was born…where she was living a year ago…or even where she’d learned about the fifteenth century Ottoman Empire.
“That was my guess as well,” he said.
He was so close; no more than a few inches separated them. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and it beckoned to her, tempted her to lean in closer, to press her body against his and feel his heat against her flesh.
“I’ll be on my way then,” she said suddenly, realizing she’d been swaying slowly toward him—a complete stranger. “I hope you enjoy the statue, and on behalf of the museum and myself, I thank you for your patronage.” She stuck out her hand and he grasped it in his much larger one.
“It was my pleasure,” he said as a sizzle of electricity raced up her arm and left her tingling even after she’d pulled her hand away. He was so warm, it felt as if he’d been holding a hot cup of coffee in his hand, and she couldn’t help imagining just how incredible that would feel as his hands grazed over the rest of her body.
“Good day, Mr. Xavier,” she said—a little too quickly it would seem by the knowing smile that tugged at the corners of his full lips.
“Like I said, it’s Grant. And good day to you too, Freya,” he replied, and she hesitated for just a second, a part of her not wanting to walk away from him. But the rational part of her brain prevailed and she left the room.
The butler who had escorted her to the office was waiting outside the door, and he walked with her back down the hall. She could have sworn she felt Grant’s eyes on her the entire way, the heat from his gaze making her skin tingle with anticipation.
She chastised herself silently as she descended the front steps to the cab waiting at the top of the drive. What interest could Grant Xavier possibly have in her? She was merely an assistant curator, living from paycheck to paycheck, and while she knew she was pretty, she also knew that a man like him could have any woman he wanted. Why would he settle for one who couldn’t afford to dine at anywhere more extravagant than the local burger joint?
She’d pushed Grant Xavier to the back of her mind by the time she returned to the museum, and then did her damnedest not to smile smugly at Anita.
“Did you enjoy your meeting with the short-tempered Mr. Xavier?” her boss asked.
She’d expected the encounter to be an entirely unpleasant one, but that was strange since Grant had seemed more than amiable.
“The meeting went fine. He seemed pleased with the purchase and with the speed in which it arrived.”
“Well good, then,” Anita replied flatly.
Freya hurried off before the snooty woman could fill her schedule with any other ridiculous tasks. She strolled through the museum to the prehistoric mammals exhibit that was just days away from its debut appearance. The last of the fossil sets had arrived just two days ago—the ten-foot long marsupial, diprotodon, and a forty-thousand-year-old smilodon, otherwise known as a saber-toothed tiger. The entire staff had been working overtime to make sure everything was perfect, and she delved in to do her part. By noon, it was beginning to look like they might just have it finished in time.
The rest of her co-workers had gone to lunch, but she lingered there, walking amid the creatures on display. A replica of a woolly mammoth stood in the center of the exhibit and she stopped next to it, gazing up at the large, open eyes, almost hidden in its long fur. She reached out to touch it, stroking the thick, coarse coat. The sensation beneath her fingertips seemed strangely familiar, but of course she could call no memory of it to mind.
“Freya,” her boss spoke from not far behind her, and she dropped her hand to her side as if she’d been caught with it in the cookie jar, but when she turned to answer Anita, her cheeks grew warm instantly.
Damn it, she cursed silently.
Anita smiled tightly, though her eyes were disapproving. “Mr. Xavier here was hoping to discuss the Ottoman statue he purchased…with you.”
She would surely hear about this later. Anita wouldn’t be thrilled that the handsome, rich patron was requesting to speak with her lowly assistant over her—even if the credentials in Freya’s apartment easily qualified her for her boss’ job. Since she couldn’t exactly tell Mr. Xavier to take a hike—something no part of her body wanted to do anyway, admittedly—Freya forced a smile on her face and did her damnedest to ignore the way his eyes grazed over her, or the way they seemed to smolder like blue flames the longer he looked.
“Yes, of course,” she said despite her reluctance, though it stemmed more now from not wanting to be alone with him than any worry over the repercussion
s from Anita. Grant Xavier was just too good looking, too potent. No man should look so good that it drives a woman to distraction.
Anita nodded, turned and strode out of the room, her nose even higher in the air than usual, and she was suddenly alone with him. She glanced up at the clock, calculating the number of minutes before the other members of the museum staff would waltz back into the room from their lunch break.
“I seem to have caused you some trouble,” he said when her boss was out of earshot, though the look on his face was anything but apologetic.
“Perhaps, but if you hadn’t caused it, she would have come up with something on her own,” she joked as he came closer. Too close. Several feet still separated them, but suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room.
She began to chastise herself silently when she realized she was responding to him like some infatuated school girl. She might not know exactly how old she was, but a teenager, she was not. What was next? Was she going to swoon if he kissed her? It was time to get a grip.
“There was something you wanted to discuss, Mr. Xavier? Did you have a question about the Ottoman statue?”
“Actually, I lied.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, really. I wanted to ask you to dinner but didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I conveyed that message through your boss.”
“Oh… Well, that was very thoughtful of you.” She imagined she never would have gotten that particular message from Anita. Still, the handsome, rich benefactor wanted to have dinner with her? Why?
“Thoughtful, no. I assure you, it was entirely self-serving,” he replied with a wry smile—a smile that did all kinds of strange things to her core.
